


Inaccurate Lyricism

by Wizard95



Series: A mutant, a bard and a genie walk into a tavern... [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, genie-wise i'm making up some rules of my own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25664578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Percyvell watches his back and tries to blend in. Jaskier is a very annoying gentleman.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: A mutant, a bard and a genie walk into a tavern... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858711
Kudos: 2





	Inaccurate Lyricism

As much as the cover of night provides an ideal environment for sneaking past blood-thirsty trained assassins it also makes him lose his bearings a total of two extra hours worth of his time. Two extra hours he could’ve used to fill his stomach earlier and book a room and get some very much needed sleep.

Of course, sleep is off the question now that they’ve caught up with him. He can’t well have some proper shut-eye when that squad of loyal little puppies are sniffing about looking for their prey.

Oh well.

No rest for the wicked, so they say.

What’s it to them, anyway?

The old man’s dead! Why can’t they just go lick that mage’s boots now? Damn their bloody oaths! _Surely_ they can be called off? For a price, surely?

Why go through all this bloody trouble? He was a terrible ruler!

Would _he_ have preferred him to that sick old wizard? Well, yes, touché, they’ve got him there. He _would_ , and especially when that treacherous bastard is back there ripping the benefits of his new position whilst unleashing the mighty hounds on _him_. Him who fucking made it all possible, who gave the last needed push to climb up on the ladder of the local hierarchy. _Him!_

He should’ve known. He should have taken the fucking hint and bolted. Even the pettiest of wizards could deal with deficient crops. With a large record of persuasive and secretive masters he should’ve seen it coming from miles away. What had he been _thinking_?!

(Well, he’d been thinking of those poor mothers and those poor children, of course, of a once lively village turned grey and sombre, of a very cruel winter and empty tables and bellies.)

The mage had been waiting for a conduct to set his scheme in motion and Percyvell had walked in, none the wiser, he’d walked in, the perfect alibi. Tired and receptive and in need of release.

“Sticking up your nose in royal affairs,” he grunts and halts behind one of the thickest trees at the front of the clearing, “you never learn.”

There’s two of them standing guard by the main track leading past the town gates. He has to walk his way round the perimeter and climb over some farmer’s fence to avoid being seen. That’s muddy shoes and a handful of very unhappy pigs growling at him to get off their sleeping quarters (on top of his very damp cloak and a ridiculous sprint off the stranger’s property when the door suddenly swings open and he stumbles out with a bottle of alcohol in one hand and an axe in the other.)

“Fuck off Duncan, ye bastard!” he shouts through slurred words, “I said nine marks and ye’ll be havin’ none of them for any less!”

“That’s rather pricey” Percyvell mouths, and he gallops off the drunkard’s property and joins a couple of men making their way towards the very lit and noisy inn two blocks up the steep street. Amidst their heated talk of debts and sex they barely notice him there at all.

“Nah, I much fancy me a blonde” growls the one on the right, “for a change.”

“A change in the weight of yer pockets! She’s double the price!”

“Aw, fuck me, whatever’s that horrid noise?!”

“That’ll be music, I think,” mocks the younger one, and he sends a fleeting look behind him as Percyvell follows their steps. “Ah, what is it with the new faces today?” he adds, quickly eyeing him up and down.

The half-genie only offers a strangled smile in return and fights the urge to throw a look around in search for any embellished horses bearing crests or any angry soldiers bearing ill intents.

“Whatever brings your kind to this shithole?” the man asks, pushing the door open and letting out the warmth, the smell of food and - yes, the sound of a very engaging singing voice. And Percyvell doesn’t know what he means by _his kind_ , but he shows that fake smile again.

“Just passing by” he offers, as he steps in and quickly surveys the many tables in search for any knights in shining armour (the bad kind).

He doesn’t see any.

“I sure hope ye ain’t got a lute hidden under that cloak o’yers” the grumpier one blurts out at him with an unfriendly look, “one is enough.”

“No,” Percyvell starts, but they’ve both left his side already, “no lute.”

For what is clearly not the most popular place in town the tavern is packed till the last table. He makes his way towards the bar carefully keeping an eye on the door and a sharp ear for the sound of neighing.

They’ve either not thought to check in here yet or checked and left already.

_Or,_ a voice at the back of his mind provides, _they’re lurking in a dark corner waiting for you to pick up your fork so that they can shove it right inside your throat and watch you bleed just as Lord Baldric of Ellander did over his roasted chicken._

An eye for an eye and yada yada.

So. Yes. He doesn’t let his guard down as he leans over the counter with that same insipid smile plastered on his face.

“Any rooms available?” he asks the lady walking out with two bowls of steaming, very nice-smelling porridge.

“You’re in luck” she answers as she turns back from the table, “the very last one.”

“Great,” Percyvell clenches his hands into fists, “I’ll take it.”

“Alright,” she mumbles distractedly as another customer leans in to his left to ask for another pint. And then another one after that. And another one, and by the time that bard’s finished his song she’s back in front of him. "That’s twelve for a room,” she says as she wipes her hands over an apron that has seen better days.

Percyvell hands the coin.

“And I’ll have some of that porridge as well,” he adds, waiting with his pouch out for her to name the price.

She doesn’t.

“In my room” he insists, “if you’ll lead the way.”

She looks him up and down with an unreadable expression and purses her lips in deep thought. Percyvell half expects one of those soldiers to jump into view from behind the counter and stab him in the face.

“What’s the matter? Our lovely bard’s voice not lovely enough for ya?” she asks throwing a look behind him with a teasing tone.

He releases the breath he’d been holding.

“Just tired” he provides, “the meal?”

“Three” she says plainly, extending her plump hand for him to drop the remaining coins on it.

After that she disappears through the kitchen door. Or, what he assumes is the kitchen door. Could also be a back door. A back door leading to the street where she’ll send some of her scrawny kids running out to look for the assassins probably offering much more for his head than he’s offering to pay for a night’s stay.

In short, he would very much like to lock himself inside a room and stay in there till morning comes.

With any luck they’ll be gone by then.

“Oof!”

The melodic high-pitched exclamation comes from his right, where a young auburn-haired man is taking a seat and downing the remains of his ale.

“Tough crowd,” he says to no-one in particular after he’s gulped the last of it.

Ah.

The musician.

“More ale?” asks a sweet voice from behind, and a younger girl short of drapes herself all over the bard in her intent to fill up the cup. He perks up on his seat and Percyvell anxiously closes his hands into fists again.

“Why, yes, Bertha, thank you so very much.”

“No problem,” she provides with a lustful smile, the genie adverts his eyes but it’s too late already and he has her on his left in a jiffy.

“Night, good sir” she coos.

Gods _almighty_. What is she, _thirteen? Fourteen?_

“Ale?” she asks, ignoring his lack of manners and leaning over the counter as she did with the bard to get hold of a clean cup. Her voluminous ass is set on display for all customers to appreciate.

“No, that’s fi-” he starts, but the cup’s filled already and he lets out a sigh.

“What’s your name?”

She rests her elbow on the counter and squishes herself in the tiny space between his seat and the next one on the row, where a curly-haired chubby customer has already dozed off and is drooling all over his empty plate.

“Duncan,” Percyvell answers with a polite yet strained smile, “say, you wouldn’t happen to know which one’s the vacated room, would you? I just paid for it and I’m awful tired.”

“Duncan,” she says, the name rolling off her tongue with mischief, “such pretty names. Jaskier, Duncan. Must be my lucky day.”

“Oi, Bertha! Fill us a cup, love!”

“Coming!”

She disappears just as quick as she appeared and Percyvell turns to the laughing bard on his right, flashing up a smile like he’s never seen before and chugging down his ale with gusto.

He feels obliged to answer to that.

“Jaskier, I take it,” he says with a boring tone, careful not to look into those glassy eyes for too long or return that happy smile lest the tipsy singer find in him a chatting companion for the night.

“The very one” the bard answers with a nod. “She’s a sweet little girl, isn’t she?” he rambles on as he looks behind him with fondness.

“Yes,” Percyvell agrees, “a sweet little girl.”

Jaskier picks up on his tone of disapproval a little bit late.

“Oh,” he exclaims, and suddenly sits up straight, “oh no, oh no, no” he lets out a nervous laugh, “ _no_.”

Now that shower of negatives almost prompts a smile out of the genie despite his current foul mood.

“That is - _no._ So wrong on _so_ many levels, and honestly quite insulting.”

“I don’t judge” Percyvell shrugs, fixing his gaze back on the kitchen door strongly wishing it to open and to be given his own steaming dinner so he can go up to his own room and have a fucking break.

“But you _should_ judge,” Jaskier continues, now leaning in closer to him, “oh ho-ho, only a certain kind of monster would - I mean she’s barely - she probably still plays with dolls!”

“She doesn’t,” Percyvell provides deadpan, because apparently not only is this Jaskier incredibly attractive and skilful with his voice and instrument, but he’s also a drunk and naive little soul who doesn’t recognize a whore when he sees one. “Not that kind of doll, anyway...”

And it’s because of the magic still livid and running inside that he decides to laugh out at _that_ comment, now. Not at the flustered singer next to him. Not at his poor attempts to weave his way out of an embarrassing conversation and even poorer attempts at keeping Bertha’s honour on the clean. No. He chooses to laugh at the notion of a young helpless girl born into an unfortunate life of sucking cocks for coin.

The bard goes silent next to him all of a sudden and Percyvell doesn’t need to look over to know he’s being given a very emphatic look of disgust.

He knows, because that’s the same look he’d be giving himself.

Ugh.

_I fucking hate magic._

“As I said,” comes the velvety voice to his right, now cold with contempt, “only a certain kind of monster.”

And he leaves his seat.

“And you’d know everything about monsters, wouldn’t you flower boy” Percyvell finds himself answering with gritted teeth. Unfortunately, the bard is still too close and his unfriendly remark doesn’t go unnoticed, not even under the constant murmur of heated conversations and cheers and clanking of pots and cutlery.

“This again,” Jaskier mumbles under his breath before stepping back and getting into his line of vision, “as a matter of fact, _yes I do_.”

Percyvell finds himself smiling again - a genuine smile, if ever so hostile.

“Like the ones in your songs?” he mocks, recalling a very ridiculous verse about a striga, “oh, the innocent princess saved by a cunning knight, yes, that’s right. Hasn’t anybody told you to write about what you know?”

“I never _once_ mentioned a knight, and if you’d been _listening_ -” Jaskier starts.

Percyvell stops paying attention as the innkeeper finally comes through the door with a generous pot of porridge on one hand and a set of keys on the other.

“-which I dare say is probably more than a pompous arsehole like you has ever seen-” Jaskier continues.

Percyvell turns his back on him and his endless monologue with a sneer.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off to your witcher, _bard_.”

He barely hears him let out an offended gasp as he follows the woman up the stairs, sending a last cautionary look towards the very closed door and soldier-free entrance of the inn.

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

* * *

The porridge is good. Certainly better than anything he’s managed to get his hands on after fleeting Ellander. It’s got a variety of vegetables and spicy herbs, which is more than he can say for his sorry culinary attempts on the road.

At least he didn’t have to burn some rat’s guts before butchering it. That alone makes it a much better dinner than any of the ones he procured himself with magic.

Yes, the porridge is good. The room not so much. It’s the last room in vacancy with good reason - there’s only a small adjacent bathroom _without_ a bath, a small enough window that he’ll have to painfully crawl through to save his skin should he be cornered, and a bed with sheets that smell clean and look anything but.

This is the shittiest room without a doubt. Again, he might be rather picky after spending his days in the luxurious house of a lord, sleeping on a bed three times his size and being summoned to fancy suppers - what was it that bard called him? _Pompous._

Still, he’s sure any agreeable owner of such an establishment wouldn’t provide their customers with holy duvets (he gives the bed a good kick before settling down on it but no rats come scurrying away.)

“Better than hard wet soil” he huffs, flopping down on the pillow with a grunt. He keeps his boots on. He keeps _everything_ on except for the hat and cloak, which hang on that rackety chair by the door.

He really needs to get off his sweaty and grimy pants and undershirt but he is definitely not going to get naked right _now_ , not in this _shithole_ , and especially not when he has no other clothes to wear and when his good fortune could run out at any given moment with a simple knock on his door.

He only realises he’s dozed off after some door slams close out in the corridor and he rises from the bed like it’s suddenly turned into needles. Retrieving his dagger from his boot in a quick motion he stays there, gasping for air after the sound is only followed by laughter and later, moaning.

It’s still dark outside and now his neck is stiff.

He gets up to peep through the window and spends a whole minute trying to smooth out the old hinges so that it can be opened. Can’t well jump out of it if it’s shut right closed, now can he?

The water on the basin is as cold as the air coming in from outside. He relishes in the sensation as he rubs his hands over his eyes to wake himself up. It only works for a little while before he starts feeling light-headed again.

How long since he had a proper night sleep? A good, continuous, six or seven hours of peaceful slumber? Unperturbed by creatures lurking in the dark of a damp forest waiting to snatch what’s left of his dinner?

Or snatch _him_.

Gods know _he_ could’ve done with a witcher or two in his lifetime.

He presses his hands against the plain cotton of his trousers to get rid of the water and turns around to go back to the bedroom only to find someone closing the door behind them.

It’s a good thing Bertha turns around to the candlelight before his nerves get the better of him. He barely has time to hide the dagger behind his back and stumble backwards in an awkward pose.

“Oh, you’re awake!” she exclaims with a smile.

And what if he _hadn’t_ been? If he’d snapped his eyes open only to find a shadowy figure looming over him on the bed she’d be sporting a nice gushy slice on her neck come morning.

“And in no need of extra services,” he says, resolute and sporting a very disapproving frown.

She pouts and crosses her arms over her nightgown and he thinks he sees her bat her eyelashes two or three times.

Percyvell sighs.

_I cannot believe._

“Please, just leave,” he asks in a plead, because he really is in no state to be dealing with _this_ shit right now, with a bounty on his head and a restless residue of magic waiting to snap out of him. 

“I only want to chat,” she offers with that same melodic voice, now taking a resolute step towards him - he closes his hands into fists.

“ _Look_ , I don’t want to _fuck_ you” he cuts her off, harshly, bringing both hands up to stop her flirtatious advance and forgetting about the dagger altogether.

Still, it comes in handy, if that terrified gasp is anything to go by.

He sets it down on the table as quick as she retrieves to the door without taking her terrified little lamb eyes off him.

“ _Or_ hurt you,” he adds, with a much smoother voice now, striving for calm but rather failing at it, “I was - scraping the dirt off my boots.”

The cautious expression doesn’t leave her face. She stares at him and darts her eyes to the silvery blade, then back to him again, her hand resting on the doorknob. Percyvell doesn’t make a move lest she turn around and make a scene for all the tavern tenants to bear witness.

Next her hands slowly rub over her arms and she glances at the opened window.

“It’s quite chilly in here” she whispers, finally leaning off the wooden door.

“So go back to your room,” he offers, shoulders slumping down, voice dripping exhaustion, eyes feeling heavy, “and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

Bertha only frowns like he’s personally insulted her. She strolls towards the window decidedly and shuts it off with a cold hard noise.

“Aren’t you cold?” she shivers, voice almost like a reprimand, and Percyvell lets himself fall on the chair with another deep sigh.

Where’d he left his bag?

She should be off with a bit of coin.

Ten? Fifteen?

Maybe he should grant _her_ a couple of wishes so she won’t feel obliged to sneak into stranger’s quarters in the middle of the night to earn her keep.

He knows he’s done much more than that for far less deserving individuals.

“It’s you those soldiers are after,” she starts, and he freezes in place.

Well, fuck.

This is going to cost him more than fifteen.

“I know it’s you, I’ve seen the posters.”

He turns around sharply and pretends not to notice her flinching.

“Posters? What post - aw _fuck_.”

“You’re a murderer.”

“And what’s your point, girl?” he spits at her, standing up abruptly.

“Nothing - I -” she stumbles back as he starts to button up his shirt and flings his cloak back over his shoulders and flattens his hat. _Posters_. Anyone in this filthy godforsaken town will know who he is after the sun is out and the liquor is off their systems. Hell, he’s lucky to have made it past those crowded tables without anyone claiming their prize. “I took it down! Ripped it off!”

He grabs the dagger and points it at her now.

“Have you told _anyone_?”

Bertha shakes her head and shrinks into herself.

“Did you tip them off?!” he barks, losing his grip for a moment and bringing one of his hands to tug forcefully at her golden locks as the unsharpened side of the dagger presses against her pale neck. He feels the blood pumping underneath his skin with growing warmth.

_It’s not her fault._

“I haven’t!” she squeaks, “I swear!”

_Stop it._

Bertha lets out a surprised gasp and he sees the bewilderment in her eyes as he takes a sharp step back. All doubt and fear seem to abandon her as she stares at his eyes with understanding.

He’s at the ready.

Ready to snatch her back and lock her unconscious in the bath-less bathroom before she ventures down the stairs to scream there’s a criminal wizard under their roof.

_He’s here! Come quickly! He tried to behead me!_

But Bertha only stands there, barefoot over the wooden planks, frozen in place and resembling the ghost of a scrawny little child he once had to get rid of on behalf of a very mortified mother.

“You’ve got magic,” she whispers at last, her face taking on a fascinated expression.

Percyvell wants to kick himself.

“So?” he asks, the remark rolling off his tongue with exasperation, “never seen a mage before?”

She shows him her biggest smile so far, like a child on a pastry store, and she shakes her head excitedly and much to Percyvell’s chagrin, slowly walks towards the bed and sits down.

Just when he thought his night couldn’t get any worse.

She’s not the least bit scared and it pisses him off, because it means she’s not leaving any time soon - she’s looking at him expectantly, like waiting for a bedtime fairytale story. It’s the first time he truly sees the naivety in her. She finally looks thirteen.

Fourteen?

“How old are you?” he asks her, taking a seat back on the chair with resignation.

“Never mind _that,_ ” she lets out a little giggle, “did you really kill someone? _With magic?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _How?_ ” she shifts on the bed, getting just a little bit closer to the edge and not letting her curious big lamb eyes off him _,_ “how do you kill someone with magic?”

“I -” he waves his hand in the air vaguely, “do that, and they die.”

Oh, if only it were that simple.

If only he _were_ a mage.

Bertha squints.

“But you’re not... bad.”

Percyvell lifts his eyebrows and she seems to read him like an open book, shutting his remark down before he even mutters it.

“No, you’re not, I know you’re not,” she lifts her chin and sits up just a little bit more straight with the air of a connoisseur, “I can read people. _And_ , you could’ve killed me just now.”

_So naive._

“I still can,” he tries in a low voice, slowly toying with the dagger on his lap.

“You won’t. And I told you, I took the poster down. You can stay the night here.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll have hung them everywhere.”

“But they don’t know you’re _here_!” she explains eagerly, “besides, it doesn’t really look like you,” she giggles again, “you’re much more handsome.”

It’s a genuine compliment. Not a flirtatious one or an ice-breaker. It’s not whore-talk, and it makes Percyvell’s lips turn into a smile before a much sour feeling settles in his chest.

“Just - don’t put on that hat.”

_I can help you, you can leave this place_ , he thinks, _get away, get a nice little farm with pigs and a cow and chickens, get whatever you want._

“And...? Will you stay?”

She looks at him expectantly. Percyvell doesn’t understand that glint in her eyes, but then again, he’s not very good at understanding people.

“I can stand guard! I’ll find you a horse in the morning!”

“No,” Percyvell stands up and puts the dagger back in his boot, “I can’t walk away on broad daylight, and you’ll be hanged alongside me for cooperating. If they can even _find_ a rope.”

Her face contorts in a deep frown.

“Most likely not,” he adds, “so they’ll just put your head up on a spike and display it for everyone to see. For treason.”

“Treason?!” she exclaims, standing up as he walks to the door.

“Treason. Murder. Deceit. I don’t know, you’re the one who took the poster down, how much are they offering for my head on a plate?”

She goes silent for a moment.

“Nothing.”

Now, that’s insulting.

“ _Nothing?_ ” he repeats, turning back to look at her with his hand on the doorknob, suddenly more awake than he’s been in the last twelve hours.

“Nothing,” Bertha shakes her head and shrugs, “it said... captured alive? Yes, that’s it.”

And those words feel like a very cold, freezing bucket of water being thrown at him. Those words and the sound of an unfolding sword on the other side of the door and of the creaking of wood planks under the weight of more than one man.

“No! Wait... it was _reward_ , uh, reward if alive! Yes. Wanted for the murder of a such and such Lord, did you really kill _a lord?!_ ”

Percyvell barely has time to back away from it before the door swings open and he’s met face to face with Valamir, wearing those awful colours and that awful armour and smiling one of those awful cocky grins of his.

“’Elo, you little shit,” the knight sneers, lifting up his sword to hold it close to the half-genie’s neck. There’s two more behind him. “You ain’t getting away this time.”

Percyvell sees Bertha retrieve to the furthest wall with a gasp, suddenly rendered silent as he’s cornered against the table.

“I sure hope not! I’m getting really bored of besting you.”

“Oh, Duncan! I’m so sorry, they must have followed - oh, sorry!” Bertha is full-on wheezing now, and Valamir turns to her with an exasperated scrunch of his nose. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he spits out, “get the bitch away!”

“ _Don’t_ fucking touch her,” the genie says through gritted teeth. Valamir's smile only grows bigger as one of his soldiers stumbles noisily behind him and approaches the girl.

“Come on,” he growls at Bertha, gloved hand tight around her arm and pulling her out of the room, “fucking walk! And stop crying!”

“Ye’ll pay for what ye’v done, _Duncan_ ” the knight mocks, attention back on him, grin turning ever-so satisfied, “Oh, ye’ll fucking pay. I will see to it, I’ll squish the life out of yous with my own bare hands, ye hear me?”

The knight looms closer and Percyvell turns his eyes towards the very long and sharpened blade of his sword, being held closer and closer to his chest with every step of Valamir taken forward.

“We’ll have some _fun_.”

“And when will that be?” Percyvell asks, with a shit-eating grin that he knows will hit all the right spots. Valamir could’ve stabbed him ten times already, he _wants_ to, he can see it in his eyes and in the way he carries himself, hand clenched tight around the handle and jaw settled in a furious bite.

That fucking wizard wants him back and he’ll be damned if he lets himself be dragged back to Ellander so he can keep squishing the magic out of him like a fucking orange.

“Such a loyal puppy,” the genie continues, and he can see one of the other knights shifting his weight from foot to foot behind Valamir, expectantly, “aw, you little pet. They just kick you around, don’t they? Forever following orders, cleaning up their shi-”

It gains him a very hard punch on the face. The blow sends him stumbling back against the wall and he wheezes in a breath and tastes blood.

“How’s that for cleaning up shit?!” Valamir growls, and when Percyvell looks back up at him his fist is coming for his face again. By the third punch he’s gasping for air on the floor. “He’ll have you alive, alright,” the sword goes back inside the fold and the knight crouches down next to him, “ _just_.”

When Valamir’s hands come to hold him by the collar to keep him upright, Percyvell closes his hands around the knight's forearms and holds his breath, arduously channelling any last bit of magic that might still be within him.

What follows is a very deafening screech of pain and the smell of burnt flesh.

“Shit!” the other knight curses, looking down at Valamir writhing painfully on the ground and then back at the genie, who’s getting on his feet. “Shit! What the-!”

“ _Fucking GET HIM!_ ”

He lacks the motivation and resolution so strongly distinctive in his superior, so he unfolds his own sword but hesitates, takes a couple of steps back until he’s out of the room and looks around no doubt waiting for back-up that doesn’t come. He lets out a very low curse and charges head-on with as much skill as a donkey. Percyvell manages to dodge his ripe attack and thrusts his dagger deep inside his throat, blood splattering all over the furniture.

He knows better than to try his luck with Valamir so he runs out of the dormitory and almost trips on his way down the stairs. Lips drenched in blood and ribs throbbing painfully, he makes it to the first floor, dagger in hand and magic gone away again.

The place is empty.

Empty save for Jaskier standing over an unconscious soldier and Bertha hovering behind him with puffy red eyes and clothes in disarray.

Percyvell takes in the scene.

The girl comes running up at him.

“Oh heavens,” she cries, looking at his bloody face and probably crooked nose and putting a hand to her lips in horror, “there’s more of them, I know there’s more of them.”

And Percyvell does what he can to put her at ease, which is not much: he holds up a hand, out of breath, and nods to show her he _knows_.

“You need to leave!” she insists, high-pitched voice, turning anxiously around to glance at the door.

“ _That_ , I agree with” Jaskier finally approaches nervously, a protective hand on Bertha’s clothes that brings her back beside him, “preferably before any more of your _friends_ turn up and tear this placeapart,” he throws a look at the soldier lying on the ground, shredded pieces of glass on top of his head, “and before this one wakes up.”

“Not a problem,” Percyvell grunts, kneeling down before the red and blue crest the uniform bears in the chest and sinking down his already bloody dagger on a second throat.

He hears rather than see Jaskier recoiling from him. Bertha lets out another strangled cry.

He doesn’t tell them about Valamir upstairs. He just throws a look behind his shoulder, sees their troubled faces and walks out - only to come face to face with a black horse and the soldier on its back, who knocks him unconscious before he’s got any time to muster up what’s left of his mojo.

* * *

_“_ _Oh,_ _the days when I was young_ _, w_ _hen I laugh'd in fortune's spite_ _...”_

  
  
He’s tied up but moving. Laying on something soft but pointy and itchy and _smelly_. He’s got a sore neck and it hurts when he breathes, there’s dry blood all over his chin and neck.  
  
  
 _  
_ _“Talk'd of love the whole day long,_ _a_ _nd with nectar crown'd the ni_ _-”_

“Shut up!” comes a deafening shout behind him, over the sound of walking horses. “Dontcha now any other songs?!”

“Why - alright, yes, your feedback is very much appreciated, what would you like to listen? I’m open to suggestions. In fact! If you’d just let me free and I could get some paper - we could even come up with a compelling story about - about you! The knights of Ellander! The _mighty_ -”

“I’d like to listen tya chocking on a fucking bone,” growls the same voice, and Percyvell opens his eyes to the painful sunlight and the sight of dirty shoes and blue trousers on his nose. The cart keeps moving and the knights utter out a collective laugh.

“Wow - okay, _rude,_ ” Jaskier mumbles, “Duncan! You’re awake, my friend! Would you please tell these gentlemen -”

He doesn’t hear what the bard says.

The next time he wakes up it’s night and he’s laying on cold wet soil. He immediately feels a shower of warmth on his already flushed cheeks, followed by a strong wave of smoke that makes him start coughing his lungs out.

He opens his eyes again to see chopped wood and Valamir’s unfriendly face beyond the sparkling fire. There’s a couple of notes played on a lute before the music stops altogether and he makes out Jaskier’s voice again.

“Come on, don’t- you don’t have to-!”

The last thing he sees now is a shadow hovering above him before blackness takes over again.

And the third time, despite wanting so very much to let out a painful groan at the state of his joints and chipped lips and probably broken ribs and pounding of his head, he doesn’t. And he doesn’t move either. He only listens. Listens chirping crickets and nearby foxes and the wind rustling the flaps of a tent. No voices and no instruments and barely the sound of a crackling fire.

He peeps one eye open, slowly, and only after a good ten seconds does he make out the shapes in front.

Two makeshift tents and only one knight in sight, sitting well away and eagerly sharpening the blade of his silvery sword.

Percyvell slowly turns his head to his sides and sees only trees - thick robust trunks like the one he’s currently tied up against. He quietly moves his hands, trying out the ropes around his wrists only to discover they’re shackles.

“Ow - don’t move!” comes a panicked whisper from behind.

Percyvell freezes.

“You’re still alive,” he says, frowning.

“Well observed” Jaskier keeps whispering, “quickly, can you set us free?” 

Percyvell feels a tug at the shackles and knows Jaskier is anxiously shifting on the other side - the metal makes a clanking sound and the knight standing guard looks up. The genie closes his eyes and goes limp.

“I’m not dressed up for this crap, I’m freezing my bollocks off and those bastards broke my _lute!"_ the bard lets out a growl, " _why_ does that keep _happening_ to me?”

It’s seems Jaskier’s made a habit of monologuing with himself, because the knight doesn’t approach.

“Ugh, where’s Geralt when you need him?”

Percyvell slowly opens his eyes one minute later to find the soldier back at his task.

“Of course, it’s only my fault for joining on your little adventure. I certainly wouldn’t have tried to stop them if I’d known you were a bloody wizard! But then again, you’re not a very good one, are you, or else we wouldn’t find ourselves in this predicament.”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Percyvell growls, unable to cope with any more of that useless banter, the unwavering throbbing pain in his head only growing stronger by the minute. “I do wonder why they brought you along, you’re insufferable.”

“I’m - _what_ \- you’re, and you’re- you’re a terrible mage!” the bard whispers angrily, “I should call them over so they’ll knock your teeth up your throat again - _insufferable?!_ That’s high coming from you.”

“And your songs are far-fetched.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“And I’m not a _fucking_ mage.”

That renders him silent.

At last.

Percyvell tries to melt the iron locks around his wrists but barely manages to feel a tingling sensation on his fingertips. It’s difficult enough to conjure up magic without a master, let alone do it after he’s been so hardly concussed he can barely breathe straight.

Unless...

“You’re not?” Jaskier’s tentative voice returns, “then what the _hell_ have they been keeping you unconscious for? Hang on, but you did burn his...” he trails off, pondering, “didn’t you?”

Better this buffoon than that boastful stuck-up slug on his mighty castle.

Besides, _the lute_. That’s one wish gone right there. And another one to get rid of these handcuffs. And probably one more to get rid of the knights.

“Duncan? Hello?”

That’s three.

He’ll be done before they even start.

"And that's not your name, is it?"

It’s his best shot. He’ll deal with Ellander’s hunt dogs first and then Jaskier will get his lute back and set him free.

“I’m a genie.” Percyvell sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> There goes the first official part of this series! It wasn't supposed to be so long but it got out of hand? Uh, so yeah, there's that. I'd love to hear your opinions! Please, I'm new on the fandom, let me know your thoughts (:


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